


Bound in Brotherhood

by Salamon2



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, Melancholy, misadventure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2018-09-13 14:25:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9127675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salamon2/pseuds/Salamon2
Summary: Gendry is the last man standing at the Inn of the Crossroads and has run it by himself for a few years when one day, Lord Ned Dayne comes riding up alone looking for a meal and a room. The two reconnect after the wars and face the personal strife each has had to deal with since they'd last seen each other, and together begin to move forward with their lives.Written in response to a Challenge from ShitMouth, who charged me with writing a fic about Gendry that did not involve Arya or Gendrya at all.





	1. The Inn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShitMouth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitMouth/gifts).



Life continued on as much as it had for the last few years as autumn turned and winter settled in. Gendry had learned to hunt what he could find, and he’d already learned to cure, cook, and brew long ago from Jeyne. The rare person who would spend the night at the Inn came by at least once a sennight and Gendry was the only one left to run it when he wasn’t at the forge. The Brotherhood had met its fate as the snows had come and he supposed he remained because he had nowhere else to go, and at least as an innkeeper and a smithy, he could earn his own living. Mostly his life was spent hunting, chopping wood, cooking, tending to the horse that was left, and cleaning. Mostly his duties kept him busy and gave him very little time to think or feel, which he thought was a blessing. So most of his days were passed thinking nothing, feeling little, and doing much. As for his fare, with coin becoming less prevalent in the kingdom, the travelers usually traded what food they brought for a night’s stay beneath the roof, though sometimes he’d host a lord or a merchant travelling on their way who’d have some coin to spare—and usually then he got as much as he could.

 

One evening a lord alone rode up to the Inn and dismounted. The snows were falling heavy, but weren’t too heavy as to be blinding. The lord was dressed in grey and lavender clothes with a heavy wool cloak about him, the hood was up and a silver scarf across his mouth. A large sword about as tall as the lord, if not slightly shorter, was strapped to his back. The lord dismounted with the grace and ease of a Lord who’d been born on the back of a horse, or so it seemed to Gendry.

 

“I have some coin to spend the night,” said the Lord muffled through his scarf as he tossed a golden dragon.

 

“I have some boar and bread left for a meal, and a bed,” answered Gendry with a sullen scowl as he caught the dragon.

 

“Any ale?” asked the lord as they entered the Inn and shook off the snow from their clothes.

 

“Aye. Brown Ale. It’s not any good, but it’s what I have,” Gendry answered as he crossed the room to get a fire going in the hearth. After the flame had taken hold, Gendry warmed his hands and then went to the kitchen to prepare the meal. The Lord meanwhile had gone out to see his horse into what was left of the stable. Gendry added mucking out the stall to his list of duties for the morrow. When Gendry had finished collecting the meal he brought in the chunks of boar he’d cut off—skewered to be cooked over the fire, the bread, and brown ale he’d managed to scrounge up. It wasn’t likely what the lord was used to, but Gendry didn’t care, it was winter and he’d been lucky enough to have speared the boar a fortnight ago. When Gendry reentered the main room he stopped suddenly. The Lord had taken off his cloak, scarf, gloves, and boots and was warming himself by the fire. He had pale blond hair and eyes so blue they looked nearly violet. Gendry knew him at the sight of him that he was Lord Ned Dayne, Lord Beric’s old squire who’d left the Brotherhood when the Lady had taken control of it. Lord Ned was taller now, a man grown obviously, with the beginnings of a beard evident on his chin. He obviously hadn’t recognized him… he would’ve said so before. And why should he?

 

Lord Ned smiled when he saw Gendry arrive with the food and beckoned him over by the fire, where Lord Ned had drawn up a long bench right in front of the hearth. Gendry brought the food to Lord Ned, put the skewers over the fire, and then took his own plate and sat on the floor.

 

Lord Ned asked, “Why are you on the ground? There’s more than enough room here on the bench.”

 

Gendry muttered as he tore a piece of bread off, “That wouldn’t be seeming—you being a lord an all.”

 

Lord Ned sighed, “So you do recognize me.”

 

Gendry grunted as he chewed his bread and softened its stale taste with a bit of the ale.

 

Lord Ned picked up his own plate and rather gracefully took a seat next to Gendry and said, “I had thought that I might have changed too much since I became a man grown. I wouldn’t have blamed you at all for not recognizing me. I was but a boy when I left…”

 

Gendry answered honestly but testily, “I wouldn’t forget you, milord. You’ve too distinct a look to forget.”

 

After a brief pause, Lord Ned said, “I suppose so. How fares the Heddles? I hadn’t seen them when I came in.”

 

“Dead,” answered Gendry before taking a sip of the ale.

 

“How?” asked Lord Ned, saddened but not surprised.

 

He answered dully, for the answer was delving too much into feelings best left not thought of, “Lord Tarly’s men came in a raid and killed Willow and most of the orphans. They raped Jeyne and she and the babe died.”

 

“And the Brotherhood let that happen, with no answer?!” asked Lord Ned with an incredulous look about his eyes.

 

Gendry gave a sad half-laugh as he turned the skewers. “The Lady was too busy with Riverrun to care for us. And what few who did care, Lord Tarly saw to them before he went to King’s Landing.”

 

Lord Ned shook his head sadly, his head seeming to hang heavy, “Lord Beric wouldn’t have wanted that.”

 

“Lord Beric didn’t even know what he wanted in the end,” spat Gendry.

 

Lord Ned again proved he was not that boy of three and ten that Gendry had once known. “He wouldn’t have just let the smallfolk suffer! He fought for the King and what was right and honorable, and protected the smallfolk.”

 

Gendry took the skewers off from the fire and handed Lord Ned his. Bitterly, Gendry added before biting into his boar, “We smallfolk, who are collected by the great for service. In times of calamity we have no option but to share their fate.”

 

Lord Ned looked at him, all melancholy. “I am sorry for all that you have endured, my friend.”

 

With a snort, Gendry answered him. “Had you cared, you wouldn’t have left.”

 

Lord Ned bristled, “I couldn’t stay with the Lady as leader.”

 

“No, but you could have fought for the smallfolk you claim you cared so much for instead of scampering off back to your fine castle, milord. Fight for the smallfolk when it’s nice and simple for ya. But get your hands dirty and spill blood for them? No… not you, not Lord Dayne.”

 

Lord Ned growled, a scowl on his face aging him a decade in its placement, “You don’t know what I’ve done since I’ve left.”

 

“That is true enough, but I figure you haven’t had to bury children with your own hands."

 

He waited for a reaction, but all Lord Ned did was frown as he bit into his boar.

 

Gendry prodded further, "How about every night comforting a girl raped by a knight? I married her so her child wouldn’t come into the world a bastard—though she hated the sight of it growing in her body, and hated herself—only to lose her when the babe came too early."

 

Again all Lord Ned did was chew and swallow.

 

And so Gendry pushed, "Tell me, Lord Ned, what horrible things have you seen while you were prancing around down South?”

 

Lord Ned snapped, “I killed my own cousin."

 

Gendry let that admission hang in the air between them, prompting Lord Ned to continue, "Gerold, he had taken hold of Starfall while I was gone. He taken my Aunt Allyria hostage and dragged her before a Septon in a mockery of marriage. He’d torn the castle apart looking for Dawn, my family's sword, but my Aunt Allyria had had it secreted out of the castle to keep it from him, and when he’d found that out, he’d locked her up and… well raped would be a word to describe it.”

 

Despite himself, Gendry had found the story thus far somewhat compelling, but rather than admit that, he mockingly said, “And you, good Lord Ned, gathered your loyal banners, came riding up, and defeated him in battle? Single combat I bet.”

 

Lord Ned grew quieter still, “No. Gerold had taken hostages from all our landed knights sworn to us—they would not lend me any aid. And he had killed any smallfolk who tried organizing a mob to rescue my Aunt. And so I had to slip into the castle and kill him myself... I found him drunk in the Starry Hall when I came for him. We fought—and though he was drunk, it only made him deadlier. I managed to kill him with a dagger to the heart. It was only by my Aunt’s word that I wasn’t killed by my own guards on the spot."

 

Gendry, still unable to give the Lord his due, snorted, “I wish I had a cousin to kill.”

 

Lord Ned spat, “And what of you? You told me what happened to the Heddles, and yet you’re still here.”

 

Gendry couldn’t respond to that, so he tore off a piece of boar and chewed.

 

Lord Ned continued, “You’ve told me what came of the Brotherhood, and yet you’re still here.”

 

Gendry swallowed.

 

And finally Lord Ned pushed too far, “Why are you still here when they’re not? Didn’t you do anything for them?”

 

Gendry threw the first punch, knocking Lord Ned back into the bench.  Lord Ned responded in kind and the two engaged in as rough a brawl as either had seen in a while. Lord Ned, despite his slight size, could hold his own in the fight. Gendry, while no trained lordling, knew enough from breaking up brawls that had had a tendency to break out in the inn to know how these sorts of fights went, and used his size to his advantage where he could.

 

When enough punches had been landed, hair grabbed,, bloody lips exchanged, bruises received, and kicks taken that they were tired, Gendry at long last admitted while he lay on his back on the floor, “I was away… Lem had shown up with word that there was a dead Frey not two days’ ride from here, and I… I needed the metal from his armor…”

 

“What for?” demanded Lord Ned who lay himself not out of reach from Gendry.

 

It came spilling out of him, then, along with all the guilt and blame he'd tried not thinking of until that moment, “I was melting down the armor to make some of my own… for me. I’d… I’d managed to collect enough from dead Freys to have everything else but I still needed a breastplate. And Lem said that most of the armor was still on this Frey, and I should hurry if I still wanted it before anymore looters had their chance at it. Lord Tarly’s men… they came while I was away. I’d just missed them when I returned. And for the shame of it… I stayed, and I wed Jeyne to try and clear my head of it… but I never could.”

 

The silence lasted between them for a while before Lord Ned himself began to talk, the words pouring from his mouth like water from a well, “I didn’t stab my cousin through the heart with my dagger. I… I stabbed him through his neck, from the back. I’d hid myself in a secret compartment I’d discovered as a young boy and watched and waited for my chance to take back the castle. I’d watched for days as he hit my Aunt every time she spoke up at meals, beat the servants because he could, and killed my wet nurse when it was discovered that there was missing food… food that I had taken. I took my chance when he’d dismissed his cupbearer one night, and I kept stabbing him even after he was dead. Only my Aunt was able to pull me off of what was left of him when I was finished. My aunt said what I did was for the good of the house, and yet I could not sleep but see my cousin’s corpse. I could only hear singing… the singing of Dawn. Our house sword is unlike other swords, Gendry… it sings when it is in the presence of its chosen successor… my wetnurse once said that Dawn contained all the souls of every Sword of the Morning… and it only sang when it found a wielder worthy… and it chose me. But I… I could not stay in Dorne anymore and be a lord, I couldn't wield Dawn... not after what I had done... and so I took a vow to join the Night’s Watch, and atone for my… kinslaying. My Aunt can carry on the House, she had given birth to a son before I left.”

 

They laid there on the ground a while longer in silence, not feeling the need to say much at all.

 

“I was glad to see you were still alive,” said Lord Ned when the silence between them had lasted long enough.

 

Gendry grunted.

 

“Truly. I think back on those times as… well, not the best of my life, but they were at least something to be proud of.”

 

 “When we were brothers…” answered Gendry.

 

“We still are brothers,” countered Lord Ned.

 

Gendry knew not what to say to being called a brother once again, and so he kept silent.

 

Lord Ned spoke as he sat up, “Come North with me. You were once bound for the Night’s Watch you said.”

 

Gendry pushed himself up into a sitting position himself, and said, “That was a lifetime ago.”

 

“And what do you have here? An inn and a smithy, aye, but I could not find that many small folk for many miles near here. You stay here and you won’t last the winter. You’ll kill yourself with loneliness and despair. I’m not saying that riding North with me will be any easier than scratching a living out here, but at least it won’t be as lonely.”

 

Gendry grunted again and got himself up from off the floor.

 

Ned had been prepared to leave not long after the sun had rose. It had stopped snowing and the world was calf deep in fluffy snow that was unlike anything he’d seen in his life before now—and he knew that it likely would only get deeper the farther North he trekked. As he mounted in preparation to leave, he heard the chink of armor and turned to see a man in armor, with a helmet of a bull’s head. It was some of the sturdiest armor Ned had ever seen not worn by a Lord. He was leading a gray nag out of the stables, and brought saddle bags full of food for both himself and for Ned. Without speaking, Ned took the offered saddlebags and tied them to his saddle while the Bull Knight tied his to his nag and mounted.  They left the Inn behind them and journeyed North, not saying a word for many a mile, but neither needing to say anything at all.


	2. The Frey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry and Ned continue their travels, coming across a Frey.

_**Chapter Two - The Frey** _

 

Lord Ned was positively irritating. How he could go from their brawl on the floor of the Inn to acting as though everything was right with the world, even though nothing was, Gendry had little clue. The immense positive nature of the lordling could not be contained and found means of expression through whistling and humming as they rode on. Gendry would have preferred if they’d been silent, and once Lord Ned would have been just as silent, but now Lord Ned seemed not to care if the entire world heard them as they rode on the road—or what they could find of the road with all this snow.

 

When at last Gendry realized that Ned had somehow begun a song which had no beginning or ending, but simply ran in an unending loop that Ned happily repeated, he had had enough.

 

“Would you quit that bloody racket? You’ll bring down outlaws on us.”

 

“If there are outlaws nearby, they’d have seen us long before they heard us, especially against this snow.”

 

“Then quit for my sake.”

 

“Don’t you like music?”

 

Gendry chose not to respond to that question. Preferring instead to snort and tighten his mouth into a firm frown.

00

“You don’t do you?

 

“When it serves a purpose, I don’t mind it,” he finally admitted.

 

“And would you call keeping our spirits up enough of a reason?”

 

“Not to a song that has no bloody ending!”

 

“But those are the best kind—because you can end them however you like, whenever you like, and it won’t be wrong.”

 

Once again Gendry snorted, but this time, Ned simply smirked and continued to whistle, picking up from where he had left off until he heard a scream which completely cut his song short, followed quickly by the howl of a wolf. Without a second’s pause, Ned was drawing his short sword and kicking his horse in the direction of the scream and howl, leaving Gendry no choice but to grumble, draw his own weapon, and follow after the foolhardy charge into the snow-covered trees and off the road.

 

It was a ruddy mess trying to ride through the snow-covered forest. Too often the snow hid deeper holes and roots which caused his horse to stumble as it made its way through the trees. So far, they were lucky the horse hadn’t broken a leg as Gendry urged his horse as quickly as he could after Ned’s tracks, after what felt like an eternity navigating the treacherous drifts and pushing through many snow-heavy branches out of the way with his own short sword, he finally came upon Ned who had come upon a wounded man surrounded by three wolves, one of which was in the process of dying as Ned sunk his sword into the beast’s hide. The other two were more concerned with fighting over the bleeding figure of the man to notice the death of their packmate. Gendry gave his horse a kick and charged straight for the wolves, aiming to hopefully scare the other two off, but one, looked up and snarled towards Gendry and his horse. The fool horse was immediately intimidated and reared, causing Gendry to fall into an awaiting snow drift. Gendry worried for a moment that something might have broken, but when he felt his feet and arms twitch, he let go of the worry that had instantly welled up in him. There was little time to think of that though, as he knew he couldn’t remain on his back for long and live. Rolling provided Gendry the opportunity to come face to face with the wolf that had unseated him, with his short sword on the other side of the wolf. Seeing no other option, Gendry lowered his head, bearing the horns of his bull’s head helmet and headbutted the wolf as it leapt at him. His helmet was ripped from his head and he heard the whimper of the wolf the next moment. Gendry looked up to see the wolf had retreated a bit, with the horns of his helmet stuck in its soft bleeding belly. He’d been hoping to gut it in the neck, but the belly was just as good as far as he was concerned. The wolf tried scampering away further upon seeing Gendry stir, but it could only trip over its own feet as the weight of the helmet upset its balance. The helmet only buried itself deeper as the wolf fell on it, causing the wolf to shriek like a hit pup. Not waiting a beat, Gendry grabbed his short sword, and clumsily rushing forward brought it down upon the wolf’s neck, having to savagely hack at it three times, blood spurting everywhere before the wolf was surely dead.

 

It was only after the beast was dead that Gendry realized he was almost out of breath and breathing deeply. He looked up around him, expecting the other wolf to come down on him any moment, but the third wolf was gone, leaving only Ned, the bloodied man, their mounts, who were now some distance away, though still in sight, and two dead wolves. Ned stared at Gendry for a moment, catching his eye, and gave a nod of approval before hurrying over to the fainted and bloodied man. In any other circumstance, Gendry would have been offended by that nod, but after goring that wolf, he’d take it. Deciding to let Ned handle the man they’d rescued, Gendry decided he’d better get their horses before they were spooked any farther from them.

 

As soon as the man was deemed likely to live, and his wounds—mostly mangled bites which tore the skin of the man’s arms and face—were tended to, Ned tied the man to his saddle and walked his horse as Gendry rode. They knew that they were best to put some distance between where they’d fought the wolves and where to make camp. Hopefully crossing a frozen stream might throw the trail, but alas, not even a creek was to be found to accommodate them. They waited as long as they dared before setting up camp within a grove of tightly clustered pines which formed enough shelter to hide them from any who might pass, and was close enough together that the snow had barely covered the ground within the grove. Soon, a small fire and Ned’s tent were set up.

 

“Who do you suppose he is?” asked Ned as Gendry tossed some of his dried supplies into the water he’d made from melting the snow. He hoped to get a decent pottage out of a bit of dried meat and greens he’d packed. Though, he hadn’t expected the extra mouth to feed, which meant they’d have to make their way to Fair Market if they were to have enough supplies on their journey North.

 

“Does it matter now?”

 

“I suppose not.”

 

But Ned was staring at the bandaged man they’d positioned and wrapped in skins and furs by the fire, and Gendry knew what that stare meant having seen it a million times when some flea bottom urchin longed to have something just before they nicked it. Gendry sighed, and did what would keep Lord Ned’s noble hands clean of any unseemly acts.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Gendry squatted beside the sleeping man who’d yet to wake despite the rough treatment he’d received, and said, “What your lordship is too noble to do himself.”

 

“I gave up being a lord.”

 

Gendry met Lord Ned’s eyes and said with a certain defiance, “You can’t help being what you were born, no more than I, m’lord.”

 

He then turned his attention to patting down their adopted dark-haired charge. The man had little on him, though the cloth of his clothes bespoke of a man of higher fortunes, turned low with winter. It wasn’t until Gendry felt something almost prick his finger that he thought he might’ve found something of importance. It was a broach, designed to keep a cloak obviously long since gone, in place. The broach was hidden in a pouch at the man’s side, but it wasn’t until Gendry managed to fish it out that he realized exactly who it was they’d found. The pin was of a quartered sigil. The upper right and lower left corners depicted three chevronels while the other quarters unmistakenly depicted the twin towers of House Frey. Ned in the time Gendry had spent examining the broach had come up behind him and now peered over his shoulder.

 

“I recognize the towers, but the chevronels I am less familiar with, though they do look familiar.”

 

Gendry gave Lord Ned a look, then placed the broach in his hand and said as he stood, “You have your answer, m’lord.”

 

“Quit calling me that.”

 

“Whatever m’lord says.”

 

“I won’t whistle endless tunes if you stop calling me that. Agreed?”

 

Gendry answered with his own nod, smirking for his own pleasure as he did. He then stirred his pottage to see the mix of grains and meats was taking well, though it needed to simmer a bit longer to get chewable.

 

“What are we to do with him?” asked Ned after he had looked between the broach and the sleeping man for long enough.

 

“What are you to do with him, you mean.”

 

Ned’s head turned immediately at that, and their eyes met.

 

“I won’t be party to keeping no oathbreakers alive.”

 

“How do you know he’s an oathbreaker?”

 

“He’s a Frey, they’re all of them oathbreakers.” A short silence filled the space between them before Gendry continued, “Can you really have forgotten the bodies they left wasted all round the Green Fork? They broke guest right.”

 

“Lord Walder did that. He’s rather young, he looks closer to our own age. How much could he have had to do with the Red Wedding?”

 

“He’s either his son or more like a grandson. His forefather’s shame is his own.”

 

“How can you believe that?”

 

“So what’s true for a bastard, isn’t for anybody else?”

 

Lord Ned had nothing to say to that, looking more the young boy who’d left after Lord Beric’s final death, than a man grown. Gendry knew that if he stayed any longer by the fire his companion would likely recover his ability to answer, and Gendry wasn’t up to continuing this any further than it had already gone. He’d said his say, and that was the end of it, as far as he was concerned. So he turned and pushed his way out of the grove and out beyond its reaches and walked into the darkened forest without aim or purpose.

 

The night sky was clear for once, with the stars and the moon shining brightly down upon the forest, casting shadows every which way so that in short order as Gendry continued his walk he began to think he saw thinks stalking among the bushes and trees, but he’d turn to see, and find nothing there. Beginning to grow cold and questioning why he’d left the warmth of the small fire and grove, Gendry turned back only to come face to face with the largest wolf he'd ever seen staring directly at him. He’d heard rumor of a direwolf stalking the woods of the Riverlands, but he’d only thought them rumor. Now he was staring directly at it, he couldn’t move for the fear its bared fangs filled him with. The direwolf lunged at him, affording him the opportunity to see it the more dangerous sex, but Gendry’s legs moved him out of the way just in time on their own accord. Soon he was running, hurrying for the grove as a howl rose up behind him, followed by more behind it. Gendry dove into the pine grove without a second thought, and Ned, who had taken Gendry’s seat by the pottage, stirring it, stood up in alarm at his return. Ned did not bother asking what the matter was, for it became all too evident as the howls and sounds of something bounding closer spoke for themselves. Gendry quickly grabbed his short sword and tossed Ned his, and prepared to meet the wolf from the direction he’d entered the grove from. 

 

The direwolf was cleverer than that though, and pounced on Gendry from the side, through a gap in the grove it created by its entrance. Gendry rolled with the beast trying to tear at his throat, but he knocked it away with the pommel of his sword just in time. A moment later the direwolf was off of him, having shrieked like its smaller brothers had that day. Gendry turned and saw the direwolf pawing at its head where the remains of what looked to be their pottage was being shaken and pawed out of its fur clumsily. Gendry turned to see Ned with the empty pot dropping from his hand and preparing to draw his short sword. It was then that an entire pack of regular wolves came bursting into the grove, quickly surrounding them. Death seemed no more certain to Gendry than in that moment. But for some reason the wolves did not move as they looked to the large direwolf for direction, but it was still pawing at half its face and muzzle. The pottage must have scalded the creature. If they were to have any chance of escaping, it was now or never.

 

“Grey Wind?” asked a voice that Gendry did not recognize, and he turned to see the Frey was now awake, and looking toward the direwolf, not with the fear any sensible man might have, but with a look of relief. The direwolf stopped its pawing and turned its one good eye towards the Frey. It stared at the Frey and the Frey at it for a while. In that time, the wolf pack began to grow antsy and snapped at Ned, but the direwolf, much to Gendry’s surprise, turned and snapped at the wolf, which sent it back to its place. The direwolf then returned its one-eyed gaze at the Frey before approaching and sniffing the man and then slowly lumbering off, confusing man and wolf alike by its actions. When it reached the edge of the grove, the direwolf turned its head back to the other wolves, who then took its sign to follow it out of the grove.

 

“I thought that it might’ve been…” said the Frey.

 

“Might have been what?” asked Ned.

 

The Frey remained silent.

 

“It wasn’t,” was all the Frey said before Ned and Gendry had recovered enough of their ability to move that they approached the injured Frey. Ned took to the Frey, while Gendry picked up the spilled pot of pottage—which was burning hot and required Gendry to pull the sleeve of his shirt down so he could grab it.

 

“Thank you for saving my life, both of you.”

 

“Think nothing of it,” said Ned graciously.

 

“You just repaid the act,” Gendry felt obliged to point out, hating the feeling. He’d have to start cooking the pottage from scratch.

 

They fell into a silence then, their nerves too wrack from all the excitement of the day to sustain any conversation after that as they waited for the new batch of pottage to soften. There went another day’s rations.

 

Come dawn and the end of his watch, Gendry entered Ned’s tent to wake him so they could prepare to ride.

 

“My name is Olyvar,” said the man.

 

“Olyvar Frey?” asked Gendry.

 

“Aye, though I am ashamed to belong to such a house as that these days,” replied then man bitterly.

 

Gendry had to admit the man didn’t try to deny his shame. And in honest respect for his honesty, Gendry was honest in return, admitting the compromise he and Ned had worked out between them the night prior, “We’ll take you as far as Fair Market, Ser.”

 

“I thank you for that, but I am no knight. You need not call me ser,” said the Frey.

 

“Olyvar then?” asked Ned.

 

To that the Frey nodded, and Ned bothered introducing them to him as travelling knights journeying North.

 

“Would you mind then, if I accompanied you beyond Fair Market, then? That is, if you do not mind travelling with a Frey.”

 

“And what lays in the North for a Frey?” asked Gendry.

 

“Honor…or at least whatever I can salvage of it,” said the Frey, to which Gendry resisted his urge to roll his eyes. Ned, the fool boy he was like to be at moments like this, took the Frey at his word, but Gendry was determined not to trust Olyvar any more than he had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I have to say, ShitMouth, the idea for taking this further came into my head as Gendry and Ned running into several more characters on their journey North. This is the first character they've run into, there'll be many more. I'll aim to have them be secondary characters mostly ignored by fandom, though there might be one or two more major ones who pop up, depending how things go. Well, one more major character for certain. Enjoy!


	3. The Old Ram and his Lambs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned, Gendry, and Olyvar encounter some new faces and an old one too. Olyvar's past actions come back to cause trouble for him.

**Chapter Three: The Old Ram and his Lambs**

 

If there was one thing that Ned knew about Gendry it was that he was far too suspicious—which Ned deemed as equally a good quality in his companion as it was a bad one. He knew he was as likely to believe a nursemaid’s tales for the truth as he had done so all his life, and that Gendry’s questioning hardened nature was the far more practical way to approach the world, especially now as the longest winter in living memory had set in and people were beginning to grow desperate, willing to say anything to survive. Trusting others and knowing when to deem them unworthy of said trust was something Ned had reflexively refrained from learning while under Lord Beric’s tutelage, but now... now he knew its use and in truth was trying to learn from Gendry.

 

Still, Gendry could mayhaps learn to forgive a bit more and accept that, like themselves, mayhaps Olyvar was battling against his own inner demons which Gendry was unwilling to accept. It at least would keep Gendry from grunting as though he were lord in judgment over the Frey every time he answered a question.

 

“So what brought you out into this wilderness, Olyvar?” asked Ned, being sure he spoke with a friendly enough smile stretched across his face as he looked up to the recovering rider upon his own mount.

 

“You aren’t then curious about whether I had a hand in the Red Wedding or not?” asked Olyvar, as though long tired of answering the question he suggested.

 

“ _I_ was going to ask you that, after Ned finished with his questions,” added Gendry with a grunt.

 

Olyvar said, “Well then, mayhaps I should start there… everyone else does.”

 

“Do so and save me the bother of asking the questions.”

 

Ned shot Gendry a dirty look for saying that, to which Gendry did not look the least bit ashamed. There was a sense of healthy suspicion, and then there was stubborn obstinacy as far as Ned was concerned.

 

Olyvar sighed and then began as though performing a well-rehearsed and well-worn speech he’d grown tired of performing, “It was my sister, Roslin, my full-blooded sister who married at the Red Wedding, but I wasn’t there to see her wed to the trout. Perwyn, my elder brother, had dragged me away from the Twins the moment King Robb’s messengers arrived from Riverrun. I figured my father would’ve shunted off Fat Walda or Gatehouse Amy on the trout. Little did I know it was Roslin who was the one to marry, nor that the wedding was a sham. I had thought… well, mayhaps after the alliance had resumed, and after father had been appeased, that I might return to Robb’s side as his squire. What a fool boy I was not to have seen what Perwyn had.”

 

“If you weren’t at the Twins for the Red Wedding, then where were you?” asked Gendry.

 

“Rosby. Perwyn took us to our Great Uncle Gyles, who was as warm and accepting of us as a man on death’s door can be. Until of course, news of the Red Wedding reached his ears and he was named Hand of the King by the Queen Mother. There was no place at Rosby for us after that.”

 

Ned met Olyvar’s eyes then, partly to see the truth for himself, and partly because he felt for the Frey in that moment. He too knew all to well the sense of what it was to have been away and out of the picture.

 

Gendry of course interpreted as he was want, “So in short, you’re saying you knew nothing of the Red Wedding until it had happened, and were a whole kingdom away from the Twins?”

 

“My brother knew something—how else would he have known to take me from the Twins? But I did not… I would have warned Robb to return to Riverrun had I known or stayed. I would have screamed for him to stab my father through the belly, anything but stay and be slaughtered.”

 

Ned could not be silent at that remark, and so asked, “So you agree with _kinslaying_ then?”

 

Silence descended upon the three of them then, so that the only sound to be heard was the fall of the snow upon the already well-accumulated drifts.

 

“Continue, Olyvar,” urged Ned after a short while as he brought his hand to the still young but slightly elder man’s knee to give a gentle squeeze of reassurance.

 

At long last, Olyvar said, “If kinslaying would have stopped my father from committing the Red Wedding, I think that I could have lived with that.”

 

Ned felt a cold shiver wash over him like a wave from the sea. Olyvar couldn’t possibly know the twisted shame it was to live knowing you had spilt your own blood. He couldn’t possibly comprehend the guilt and agony from such a betrayal, nor the secret delight in which one revels in such an action, once the deed begins, which even now shamed Ned and mocked him in his dreams. What did he know of how one’s kin’s blood becomes a paint, the knife a brush, and the body a canvas upon which such grisly delights could be decorated? No, Olyvar was only speaking as one boy might, imagining themselves capable of enduring a tougher lot to carry by the Gods than what they had actually been given. Olyvar might be older than he in terms of namedays, but he still clung to a boy’s understanding of the world. What did he know of the monsters men keep chained within themselves?

 

“What happened after you left Rosby?” asked Gendry, his voice still tinged with doubt.

 

 

“Perwyn and I ended up at Castle Darry. There was no returning to the Twins, not after what my kin had done, and Great Uncle Gyles would not have us, so there was nowhere else to go. Amy, was now lady of the castle, and newly wedded to a Lannister. The man was too pious for my liking, but I said nothing—he at least was willing to provide a roof under which we could rest. And when he left my niece to join the Sparrows, well, I was hardly surprised in the least. Perwyn left me at Darry. We’d been fighting ever since news of the Red Wedding arrived at Rosby. Truth be told I had blamed him for allowing Robb to die instead of doing something, so I wasn’t sad to see the back of him then. I stayed at Darry for a time, defending my niece’s lands from bandits and raiders. Her father was killed by some, she hardly had anyone else to help defend her lands, and I needed some place to stay… it only seemed natural.”

 

Ned stole a brief glance at Olyvar to confirm his thoughts before casting his look to Gendry, a shared look understanding passing between the two in that moment.

 

This time, Ned took it upon himself to ask the question, for he didn’t trust Gendry to not blurt out the understood but unspoken one. “What changed to drive you out of such a… family arrangement?”

 

“Amy remarried—she was forced to by this new Dragon King if she wanted to keep the castle. And there was a member of the Golden Company who called himself Darry so it was said to be only seemly that the two “cousins” rejoin the family’s branches once again. Though the man, to look at him, hardly looked like a Darry if you ask me. He said I could either stay and become his manservant wearing a bronze collar or leave a free man after the wedding. I left the night before, simply to be sure I’d leave in time. I tried returning to Rosby, where Perwyn had managed to make himself the new Lord of the town after our Great Uncle’s death, but we no longer were as close as we had been when younger. So after a time, I left and decided that I’d find my own way or die trying.”

 

“What a sweet tale, I especially liked the part where you gallantly offered your services to your poor helpless niece.”

 

“What, _Ser_ , are you implying?”

 

Ned interrupted with a playful tone to befuddle Olyvar into showing the truth with his actions, and not hide them with his words, “That part had some ring of truth to it, Gendry, however extended it was. No, what I would like to know, Olyvar, is how you managed to crisscross a war-torn kingdom with just your brother without any delay or misfortune falling upon you as the countryside was beset with such bandits and raiders that even your half-brother met a grisly end.”

 

“They only came after the Red Wedding,” remarked Olyvar hastily after swallowing what looked to be a hint of shame.

 

Gendry could not help but say, “Seven hells they did. Mayhaps you were too busy serving your King, but the smallfolk, they remember the Karstarks, and the sellswords, and the Mountain—they’ll never forget any o’ them.”

 

Olyvar did not say anything, seeming like a turtle, to withdraw within himself.

 

Ned now was all forgiving, prodding, “The truth, Olyvar. The truth is the only path to reclaiming what honor you wish to have.” But that did not stir Olyvar to speak.

 

_So it isn’t honor that drives you then._

 

Ned had given up upon hearing a word from Olyvar when at last he responded in a tone barely above a whisper, “What good can the truth be, if all it does is bring pain?”

 

“Then expect to scavenge little honor in the North,” said Ned, beginning to regret they’d saved this Frey from the wolves. No, that was unfair, he’d saved them from that direwolf with that word… oh, what word?

 

Olyvar’s answer was cold and resentful, asking, “And what do you, Ser, know of honor? Tell me, you seem hardly more grown than a beamish boy. What have you done in your life thus far to become a paragon so young? What did you do during the War of the Five Kings?”

 

“I did as I had done before the war, I squired for Lord Dondarrion.”

 

Olyvar’s face paled underneath his hood. “Dondarrion?! Beric Dondarrion?”

 

“Was there any other?” asked Gendry. Ned could feel his smirk, even without having to look.

 

“Y—you’re… you’re part of the Brotherhood without Banners?” Whether Olyvar’s stammer was due to the cold or not, Ned cared not at this point.

 

“Is there a reason you should soil your breeches?” asked Gendry.

 

At that Ned couldn’t help but laugh, though he saw how stiff and scared Olyvar held himself in that moment until Ned, recovering from laughing reassured, “Formerly, when they fought for justice for the smallfolk, King Robert, and Lord Stark.”

 

Olyvar did not respond, and Ned wondered if he would have to sleep with his knife in his hand tonight.

 

“Smoke up ahead,” called out Gendry, interrupting the scene before any conversation could continue. Ned turned and saw the wispy grey smoke twist its way through the falling snow. A campfire was up ahead and with it travelers of one sort or another. Without another word needing to be spoken, Ned lowered the visor to his helm and drew his short sword, leaving Dawn strapped to his back for now, and he heard Gendry lower his visor and draw his own sword from its sheath.

 

“And what about me?” asked Olyvar, shivering with the cold, despite the blanket that Ned had given him.

 

“Don’t you have a knife?” asked Gendry.

 

“D—do you think if I still had one, I’d have been wrestling with that wolf?”

 

Wanting Olyvar to keep quiet as they approached what might be danger, Ned drew his own knife from his belt and handed it to him. He might find the man distasteful giving in to the easy temptations of lying and cowardice, but that did not mean he should not be able to defend himself.

 

They turned the bend in the road, the trees which had lined its edges giving way to a small crossroads where off to the one side, a small campfire and a tent were set up. Nearby, tied to a tree were three lean horses, though only one man, a greybeard, sat by the fire, stirring what looked to be a meal of pottage in a kettle over a small but smoky fire. They did not approach it long before the man stood and drew his own weapon from beneath his woolen cloak.

 

“You’ll come no closer without declaring your names and intent,” declared the greybeard in a finer tongue than Ned had heard in ages. His beard was not only grey it was as thick and woolly as a ram's fleece.

 

“Weary travelers upon our journey North,” answered Gendry, his suspicion once again useful.

 

“Where north?” asked the greybeard

 

Ned and Gendry exchanged another quick glance before Gendry said, “To wherever food and a hearth will take in travelers.”

 

The greybeard scoffed and challenged them, “if it’s food you desire, I should think you’d be traveling south, not north in winter.”

 

Ned could see more of the truth was required and then said, “Our final destination is the wall, if all else fails before then.”

 

“And what have you done to offend the Golden Dragon who sits the Iron throne?” asked the greybeard with a frown of his own.

 

Gendry snorted like the bull his helmet was shaped in might. Most likely he knew little of how a second Dance of Dragons had taken place—though short it had been in comparison to the other of greater fame, it had been nonetheless as bloody a business. Ned had avoided declaring for any King since King Robert, and in aiming to join the Night’s Watch he did not intend to start following this northern folly now. And so, Ned said, “Nothing, and yet our knees do not bend. We would serve the realm before any man.”

 

It was difficult to discern how this answer was received by the greybeard as he stood as still as a statue for some time in the falling snow. And then, he sighed, shook his head and sheathed his own sword.

 

“Anyone fool enough to run north to escape the Golden Dragon is no enemy of mine. Come, share my fire and vittles—little though it be.”

 

While Ned and Gendry exchanged glances, Olyvar was the one who spoke and accepted the invitation, “We would be glad to share a fire with you, grandfather.”

 

“I have fathered no sons, and thus am not a grandfather,” answered the greybeard.

 

“Then who travels with you?” asked Gendry, who had yet to move or sheathe his sword.

 

“My squires… the few left to me. They went to gather logs for the fire and see what game could be scrounged up.”

 

“You are a Knight then, Ser?” asked Ned as he sheathed his sword and urged his horse forward.

 

“Aye, as are some of you?”

 

Gendry nodded, his armor clanking with the deliberate jerk of his head, though he kept as he had been asking his questions, “And have you no name beyond the title?”

 

“I will tell you mine if you tell me yours,” said the greybeard with a smirk.

 

“Olyvar,” answered the Frey upon Ned’s horse, and after a short pause, Ned answered, “Edric.” If his name was the cost of this stranger’s, he’d rather it not be Ned he was known as.

 

“And you, Ser?” asked the greybeard to Gendry as Olyvar dismounted and stumbled eagerly for the fire, while Ned tied his horse to a nearby tree—though not so close to the other horses.

 

“You’ve got two names of three without giving yours or your squires. Say all of 'em and I will say mine at the last,” answered Gendry.

 

“You are as shrewd a bargainer as any innkeep, Ser. Very well, if only so we can warm our bones again, you can call me Ser Arstan, to whom my squires are Grazhar and Lyzam.”

 

“Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill,” was the bull’s response, after which Ser Arstan nodded and Gendry then sheathed his sword and joined Ned in tying his horse next to Ned’s.

 

After their horses had been attended to, Ned and Gendry joined Arstan and Olyvar by the fire. The snow had paused sufficiently enough by then that they could take off their helms without tying a hood round them, and they had taken off their gauntlets while seeing to their mounts already and were eager to warm the stone-cold fingers by the fire. As they approached the fire hands held out for the warmth, Ser Arstan glanced at them and then looked again and went as white as the snow which was about them. The greybeard’s mouth hung slightly open, even as Ned and Gendry took their seat across from Olyvar and Arstan.

 

“Is there something wrong, Ser?” asked Gendry when he’d grown tired of being gawked at.

 

“Mother have mercy upon me. I had heard the Seven sent the ghosts of those you had known in life to you when you were close to death, but I hadn’t thought I was as close as this to meeting the Stranger!” exclaimed Ser Arstan as he stared between both Ned and Gendry.

 

“We are no ghosts,” harrumphed Gendry with a frown.

 

“Then you are the wraiths of the Stranger, come to taunt me in these cruel forms before taking me to the Seven Hells then? Let me at least confess my wrongs before you do.”

 

The old knight then took to kneeling while Ned and Gendry exchanged a quick bemused look.

 

It was Olyvar who tried to re-establish some sense of reason to the scene, by finally lowering his hood and asking, “Ser, do I resemble some long dead man? If not, please save your knees for—”

 

“G—gyles?!” exclaimed Ser Arstan, at which Gendry could not help but laugh in a loud guffawing manner that Ned had not heard from his companion for a long time. Ned himself couldn’t help but hide his mouth beneath his hand and snicker into it as Olyvar’s eyes widened with fear upon hearing his Great Uncle’s name mentioned.

 

Ned at long last relented first and confided, “We are no wraiths either, Ser. We are as we said, weary travelers, and relations to the men you mistake us for.”

 

Ser Arstan blinked and said, “Relations? Oh… aye, of course… it’s just, I’ve seen so many things since I left Westeros, wonders I thought unimaginable to see that I didn’t think… no I couldn’t think straight about the situation.”

 

“I’ve been oft told I have more than a passing resemblance to mine Uncle, Ser, I take the comparison as a compliment,” assured Ned.

 

“Arthur was your Uncle then? Oh yes… the boy lord with Dondarrion… you were just a child when I saw you last.”

 

“I admit to having grown much since then,” answered Ned with a smile.

 

“Aye, though you’ve yet to grow more of a beard than a bit of scruff upon the chin it seems,” said Ser Arstan in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood.

 

Ser Arstan then turned to Gendry who met his eyes and spoke before Ser Arstan could say anything, “I am aware of who my father was, Ser, and how he came to get my mother with me.”

 

Ser Arstan nodded and then after a brief pause said, “You have a half-sister, in the Vale, if she still lives. She was in service to Lord Royce at the Gates of the Moon last I had heard… and a half-brother of course raised at Storm’s End, though what has become of him, I know not.”

 

Ned however did, “Have you not heard, Ser Arstan? He is the Golden Dragon’s Lord of Storm’s End. He was discovered in Lys by the Golden Company and declared his loyalty to the dragon, and it was his presence which made the taking of Storm’s End possible.”

 

“How do you know all that?” asked Gendry.

 

Ned recalled in that instant how the young lordling of Storm’s End had detained him on his travels and reminded him of the boy on the cusp of manhood that he’d known in the Riverlands. “I had some misadventures we could say between leaving Starfall and finding you again my friend.”

 

“Do I really look that much like my Great Uncle Gyles?” questioned Olyvar who’d been stunned into utter silence this entire time. Ser Arstan joined Ned and Gendry in laughing in response.

 

It was to this that two figures approached their camp, one carrying a rabbit that had been snared and the other a pile of logs. They stood off at a decent pace from the circle looking about the group warily. One looked closer to Gendry’s age and the other a tad younger than Ned, but on the cusp of manhood nevertheless. The elder of the two, whom Arstan introduced as Lyzam, was swarthy, tall and well-built, a titan of a man with hair that looked as though it had never been cut in his life. His hair was bushy and tied into what looked most like long ropes which were tied back from his face by a piece of green cloth. He had a beard which appeared to have just grown in for the first time it was so thin. He wore mismatched sized clothes of wool, his tunic appearing too large, his pants too tight against his legs, his boots like his gloves were not a matching pair—with one quite obviously larger than the other—and his cloak as though it had been nicked from some dead man upon a battlefield. But the most remarkable thing which struck Ned was Lyzam’s green eyes which stared bold, strong, and unflinching at them all. He held many more logs in his arms than Ned would ever dream of carrying.

 

Grazhar in comparison still had the build of a lanky youth, whose clothes looked ill-fitting as though he’d outgrown some and overestimated his needs in others. The youth had the Ghschari tell-tale bronze skin and red-black hair that Ned had read about when younger which was kept at a medium length close to his head in a curly bush of its own. He was smooth cheeked, too young to even grow the faintest hint of a beard and looked as though his bones had grown before the rest of his body had finished filling out. Wrists jutted out at the ends of his tunic and his gloves were too small to make up the difference, with the finger tips cut off to keep them fitting longer than suggested it seemed. His pants bagged about his own boots, as though he expected to grow further taller than he already was, which was already a match for the height of the filled out Lyzam. Grazhar’s face still had a bit of the roundness of a boy to it, with its most prominent features being his amber colored eyes which were just a shade or two lighter than his own skin, and his lips which looked red from the cold, and oddly wet looking as though he’d been drinking water not a moment ago.

 

“Iksā daor mērī,” said Lyzam to Ser Arstan with a deep voice that was slow and deliberate.

 

“Issi jāre naejot Jelmor. Nyke gīmigon pōja ānogar, Kosti pāsagon zirȳ,” answered the greybeard quite easily.

 

“Yn k—kostagon īlon pāsagon zirȳ?” asked Grazhar with a cracking but light voice in the midst of change.

 

“Do you understand anything?” asked Gendry in a whisper as he leaned close in to Ned.

 

“A bit… Ser Arstan’s saying he knows our families and we can be trusted,” answered Ned in a hushed tone while Ser Arstan and his squires continued to talk.

 

“That’s more than a bit,” commented Gendry.

 

“I’m not getting everything.”

 

“And why not?”

 

“They’re speaking in a dialect of Valyrian I haven’t heard before.”

 

“Ser Gendry, Lord Edric, Olyvar, you must forgive my squires, since they joined with me they have learned to trust strangers very little, especially here.”

 

“Ao daor pāsagon zirȳla mērī k—kesrio syt vestras issa iā azantys,” rebuked Grazhar passionately, the forcefulness of his words undermined by his cracking pubescent voice.

 

“Grazhar iksis paktot,” added Lyzam to which Grazhar looked adoringly at the older squire for the bit of praise, apparently not used to such agreement, if Ned were any judge of their behavior.

 

“Issa gaomagon!  Kessa ao sit ilagon iā daor?” shouted Ser Arstan with a ferocity of frustration of a man ten or more namedays younger than he looked.

 

Lyzam answered by dropping the logs where he stood and stalking off for the tent. Grazhar, caught off guard by the action, recovered by throwing the hare he’d caught to the ground shouting, “Ao rāpa prūmia uēpa vala!” and following after his compatriot to the tent.

 

Gendry and Ned exchanged glances then, knowing that it mayhaps might be a good time to continue on, rather than add any further to the old knight’s troubles with his squires.

 

“You must forgive my squires, they… they are rather protective of me it seems.”

 

Which was the polite way of saying that Grazhar had called Ser Arstan a soft-hearted old man for trusting them so easily.

 

“Ser, if they understood how we came to sit by the fire, mayhaps they would not think you so trusting,” offered Olyvar slyly.

 

“I thank you, but this was only an excuse for them to get angry. They've long been in need for some excuse to yell at something--all boys their ages do. There are other issues which they have to be upset with life… and myself,” answered Ser Arstan rather sadly as he pulled off the kettle of pottage and offering the kettle and the wooden spoon to Olyvar, who looked between Ser Arstan and the proffered kettle with some confusion.

 

“I’m afraid, I haven’t any fine dishes to eat upon, so we’ll have to make do eating straight from the kettle,” said Ser Arstan.

 

“As fine a way to eat as any other,” answered Gendry warmly.

 

When they had each had a spoonful, Ser Arstan took the remainder in the kettle and entered his tent.

 

“We’d best be setting our own tent up. With how dark it’s getting, it’s too late to continue traveling,” commented Ned.

 

To which Gendry snorted his approval of the plan, though, they took care to set up Ned’s pavilion on the opposite side of the campfire from Ser Arstan’s. By the time they had finished, it had indeed grown rather dark for a late afternoon in winter. Ser Arstan and his squires had stayed within their tent while they had worked, and Olyvar meanwhile had sat at the fire, observing both Ned and Gendry as they put up the tent and also the tent where Ser Arstan and his squires remained. Ned felt a twinge of anger seeing the Frey add sloth his growing list of vices, but upon second glance, Olyvar seemed to be muttering to himself as though puzzling something out, and Ned wondered if letting the Frey to himself for the nonce might not be the best idea of a bad bunch. Besides Gendry was enough of a handle in explaining which posts went where and what to hold when that Ned had his hands full enough with his help as it was. When they had finished, Ned and Gendry once again needed the warmth of the fire to warm their bones. Their timing could not have been anymore perfect as it had begun to snow again when they had sat back down to the fire, which Olyvar had tended, throwing a log or two which Lyzam had brought before.

 

“A copper for your thoughts?” asked Gendry, taking a seat next to Olyvar, with Ned on his other side. Olyvar however did not seemed disturbed by the sudden surrounding and closeness of them, as any other man might.

 

“I was trying to figure out who would have known my Great Uncle when he was young enough to be my age,” answered Olyvar.

 

“One sworn knight among many, I expect,” answered Ned, though some inkling bugged him about Ser Arstan nevertheless.

 

“He hasn’t told us all, but then neither have we,” stated Gendry.

 

“Aye but aren’t you curious how he knew you have family elsewhere across Westeros and where they were?” asked Olyvar.

 

Gendry snorted in response and said, "What good is family, if you'll never see them?"

 

Ned refrained from adding a remark. Olyvar had obviously never seen the late King Robert alive, or else he’d know the answer to that question now. The only question Ned had was where he had seen Ser Arstan, or Ser Arstan had seen him in King’s Landing. The man, now that he thought on it, seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place the long woolly bearded and long haired old man at all among the knights he’d seen at King’s Landing or before in the Stormlands or Dorne. And yet it had to have been at the Tourney of the Hand in honor of Lord Stark, nearly the entire kingdom had shown for that one after all. Despite himself, Ned found that Olyvar’s curiosity wormed its way into him as well.

 

“That he speaks High Valyrian so well says that he is nobly born, but such a man would surely be well known about the Kingdom,” stated Ned.

 

“Either that or spent enough time in the Free Cities to learn it for himself,” added Olyvar.

 

Ned shook his head. “No, he did not speak it with any of their inflections, he spoke it as a Westerosi would.”

 

“But he has two foreigners for squires, and can converse with them as easily as if he’d been living among them for years,” countered Olyvar.

 

Gendry then said, “The man’s a knight either way about it. He’s been to Essos as well. For all you know he was some second son of some nobleman who made his living fighting for a sellsword company in Essos. It would make the most sense.”

 

It was at that point that Ser Arstan and Grazhar exited the tent. Lyzam was nowhere in sight. Grazhar situated himself upon the large log that Ned and Gedry had sat upon earlier, looking rather much as though he were deigning to  show his presence among them.

 

Ser Arstan sighed before taking his seat on the log between his squire and his guests, “Sers, my Lord, I would beg pardon on behalf of my squires for their conduct. It seems I have been mistaken that the niceties we Westerosi are taught from a young age are inherent to mankind.

 

Ned cut in before either Gendry or Olyvar could muck this up, “It is no trouble, Ser, we thank you for your hospitality, and we’ll be sure to not trouble you and your squires any longer than a night’s worth.”

 

“Ha!” said Grazhar, to which Ned knew immediately that though Lyzam might look the more imposing of the two, Grazhar was the cleverer, though not half as clever as he was like to think, given he’d just given himself away.

 

“Mayhaps we could exchange stories of how you came to see me from afar, Ser,” suggested Ned, pretending not to have caught Grazhar’s mistake.

 

“It was at the Tourney of the Hand… I rode in the lists, though I didn’t make it far,” said Ser Arstan.

 

“You yourself seem familiar to me, Ser, though I cannot say I can place the face… did you always have a beard, Ser?” asked Ned.

 

“No. I was once like Grazhar here, young enough to not be able to grow a single hair upon my chin. When I finally was able to scrape together the meanest of beards, I grew it out to show off my maturity, until I grew tired of eating hair with my meals,” stated Ser Arstan elusively, though answering Ned’s question nevertheless.

 

“And aren’t you tired of doing so again, now?” asked Gendry.

 

“What?”

 

“Eating hair with your meals.”

 

“Aye, but a beard in winter is as much a necessity as it is a sign of maturity,” said Ser Arstan with a smile that betrayed he was regretting his hospitality.

 

“And how about you, my lord? I presume you were knighted by Lord Dondarrion,” continued Ser Arstan after a momentary pause to recollect himself.

 

“No, he died before he could do me that honor, and I am no Lord anymore, Ser.”

 

“Has Starfall been ravaged by these late wars so badly?”

 

“Let us say that I have left Starfall in the capable hands of my Aunt Allyria, and say no more of the matter,” answered Ned after a brief pause.

 

Ser Arstan nodded with something that looked like appreciation and added, “I had the pleasure of dancing with your other aunt, once. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever met in my life. If your Aunt Allyria is only half so beautiful, then House Dayne is blessed indeed.”

 

Definitely a nobleman’s son, though to see his age, he’d have been old enough to have been Aunt Ashara’s father, let alone her “dancing partner”. Besides his aunt had been in love with Lord Stark, if there had been any dalliance with the old man, it would not have lasted very long. Ned turned his thoughts away from his family, the pain of leaving Starfall still aching in his heart, though he knew it was the only honorable thing he could have done in the circumstances. He instead looked to Grazhar, who was feigning disinterest in the entire conversation, using a long branch he’d picked up to poke at the fire, though he’d sneak looks up to get a look at the rest of them.

 

“And when exactly did you meet my great uncle, Ser?” interjected Olyvar.

 

“Gyles? Well, I met him on campaign during the Nine Penny War. That’s when I fought with your Uncle, Edric.”

 

“Fighting for the crown then? Or a sellsword company?” asked Olyvar pointedly.

 

“I fought for the crown at that time and did… minor deeds of note to win the battles.”

 

“Lo ao pāsagon zirȳ sīr sȳrī, pār skoro syt daor ivestragon zirȳ aōha drēje brōzi se eylemlerīn? Skoro syt tymagon bisa sekilde?” interjected Grazhar at that moment, betraying his disinterest.

 

“And under what banner did you fight in those days?” asked Olyvar, clearly not understanding the challenge to which Grazhar was bringing to his sworn knight.

 

Ser Arstan it seem did not wish to face his squire and continued speaking with Olyvar, “The King’s banner, as all loyal men did in those days.”

 

“I take it you were on the wrong side of the rebellion?” asked Ned, beginning to sense a story in his head of the second son of a Crownlands bannerman who’d been exiled after the Targaryens had lost the war.

 

“Aye,” answered the knight.

 

“And was banished?” asked Gendry.

 

“I’ve been that as well.”

 

At that, Grazhar seemed unable to act his part any longer and asked of Ser Arstan, “Skoriot iksis aōha rigle? Skoriot iksis aōha hoskagon?”

 

All eyes went to Ser Arstan who looked away from the challenging eyes of the young Grazhar and answered in a Valyrian that Ned could understand, “Gō Zōbriēdar rāenion, lēda zirȳla dārōñe, se mōrī hen drēje Targārien qilōni nyke qringaomatan naejot mīsagon.”

 

_He had fought for the Dragon Queen before she fell into Blackwater Bay._  
  


Singers had told of how upon the back of the great black beast, Daenerys Targaryen had been like Rhaenyra in how she fought for the Iron Throne, but her recently discovered nephew Aegon, who had the power of the Golden Company behind him and a green dragon beneath him had, like Aemond Targaryen, sent her to the bottom of Blackwater Bay as Lucerys Velaryon had gone to the bottom of Shipbreaker Bay.

 

Grazhar answered after taking a moment to look at Ned and the others gathered about the fire, and spoke in a clear though accented common tongue, “I left my home and my family because you defeated those who w—would have torn the greatest city in the world to rubble, who saved me and others from the treacherous Shavepate, who’s killed false kings and rescued others from capture, you the white knight of the Dragon Q—queen, for a chance to learn what you could do. But here you are, sitting at a crossroads, having nowhere to go, lying about your past as though it were something shameful, and hiding yourself like a dog who’s been beaten after crawling out of the fighting pits.”

 

“I am sorry to disappoint you, but truth be told, I am an old knight… and a knight is not a very good one without someone to fight for.”

 

“Nyke pendagon īlin mirre ao jorrāelatan.”

 

And with that said, Grazhar departed, looking somewhere between the point of tears and fury. Ned watched him as he stalked off in the direction of the horses. Something about the boy reminded Ned of how he’d reacted when Lord Beric had died. The realization that the war to fight for the smallfolk had come to an end by the choice of Beric more than anything else. Why? He had asked Beric’s grave after digging it himself. Why had he given his life for that of the Stoneheart’s? And how could he have been at ease with just leaving him alone and confused in a foreign land, barely old enough and capable enough to look after himself. Towards the end he had forgotten Aunt Allyria, but he hadn’t forgotten him, his loyal squire, and hadn’t he been enough? Yet in the end he hadn’t. Feeling compelled to reach out to another like-minded soul and try and do something so the boy would not stew in his own anger, as Ned had, Ned rose not long after Grazhar had retreated into the growing darkness and left the campfire without saying a word, leaving Gendry and Olyvar to deal with the shamed old knight.

 

Ned’s eyes adjusted to the dark and he found the boy’s tracks leading into the woods, though he was not that deep into them, and clearly doing his best to wipe what tears fell down his face.

 

“Qrīdrughāks Lyzam” stated Grazhar in his cracking voice that failed to sound commanding.

 

Ned decided to surprise Grazhar and answered in his own rusted Valyrian “Iksan daor Lyzam.”

 

The boy turned and with a look of surprise morphing into a frown as he asked “Is he so old now that he c—cannot come himself?”

 

“He did not ask me to come. I came… because I had to learn at a much younger age than you that my hero was a man with feet of clay.”

 

At his bastardized quotation of the first half of the old Valyrian proverb that ended: “but a dragonlord is god made flesh,” the Ghiscari boy regarded Ned as though he were seeing him for the first time. It was of little doubt then, to Ned, that he was dealing with a nobly born Ghiscari boy, as he had suspected from how he valued the honor of the old knight so highly.

 

Ned spoke, not knowing what point he was going to make as he said it but trusting his heart to guide him as it had long ago, when he’d been the boy crying in the woods.

 

“I was a squire to a lord who was to marry my Aunt. The marriage and my fostering were designed to help secure allies against our sworn rivals, the Oakhearts. I was sent rather young to be his cupbearer and later became his squire. My father died when I was rather young you see, so Lord Beric was the closest thing I ever knew to a father in my life. I admired and looked up to him just as any son might a father, and then he died, it wasn’t the immediate quick death of once in battle, no, I watched as he slowly lost parts of himself, grew distant, and began to be a shadow of the man I had once admired so. He had said he’d championed the smallfolk, the King and his Hand, Lord Stark, but as the time wore on… and the fighting never ceased… what he fought for seemed to die that long slow death with him. And when at last he could no longer continue on… he chose to embrace the cold arms of death and completely forgot about me, my Aunt… everything. I was angry with him for a while after that… mayhaps I still am to some degree. The point is though, that our heroes will disappoint us, but it’s what we choose to do after we’ve been disappointed that matters.”

 

Grazhar was silent, seeming to regard Ned in the aftermath of the moment. Ned had almost turned around to leave the boy to his tears when Grazhar gave out a heavy sigh and said, “I was sent by my family as a hostage to ensure their goodwill to the Queen. Not long thereafter she departed the city, her husband was overthrown, Meereen came under siege by the Yunkish, and the pale mare road around the city, killing many who lived within its walls. Amid all that chaos the Shavepates tried to take the city by stealing us children from the Great Pyramid, but Ser… he rode forth into the pyramid and with his squires killed those locusts. I swore to the Harpy then and there that I would do as much as he had done for me for others like I had been—the small, the weak, and the young when I was as big and strong as he. He was the Queen’s Hand and commander of her army when she landed here in the Sunset Kingdoms, but then the Queen died and he… well, he has not been the same man he was, and I wonder… I wonder if he ever was what I thought him to be.”

 

Ned took Grazhar’s pause as permission to speak. “Mayhaps not… mayhaps he had been and no longer is… but that does not mean you have to discard what he meant to you when he inspired you to be a better man like you thought him to be. The man may disappoint, but what he stood for when you admired him… and what that meant to you, no one, not even him can take that from you.”

 

Grazhar in that moment looked Ned directly in the eye and said, “You are not the barbarians I feared you’d be.” The answer to which, Ned thought it only polite to smile.

 

It was then that the sound of the horses whinnying could be heard, and their attentions were drawn away from that rather intimate instant. Ned turned back in the direction of the clearing and heard the sound of men, more men than just their respective companions. Signaling for them to be quiet, Ned drew his sword, Grazhar following suit and carefully crept closer to the edge of the wood once again with the experience that the Brotherhood had taught him. There he saw Ser Arstan, Gendry, and Lyzam standing around the fire, swords drawn and facing seven men on horseback. The lead man, from what Ned could see in the dim light of the afternoon looked to be dressed in armor, while the state of his companions could not be determined from the angle Ned was at as they were well bundled underneath their rough wool cloaks. All but the lead men carried spears.

 

“Well, well, if it isn’t _Uncle_ Olyvar…” said the lead man, who was big, burly, and dressed in armor which had the brown ploughman of Darry surcoat overtop it was a label—representing a chord stretched over top the charge with three ribbons dangling down, and upon those ribbons three golden skulls were rather visible—the golden skulls of the Golden Company.

 

Olyvar, for his part had not drawn steel but instead stared at the gigantic brute of a man upon horseback.

 

“And who, Ser, are you?” demanded Ser Arstan in that moment, seeming the man who had challenged them upon coming upon their camp, and more.

 

“I am Lord Bernar Darry, the Lord of Darry, the lower Trident, and what remains of the Saltpans. In the name of King Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of his name, I have been charged with clearing these lands of the brigands, formerly called the Brotherhood without Banners, who follow a Lady named Stoneheart. You look like you lack banners, Ser Greybeard, that is unless your knees can bend in honor of King Aegon.”

 

Lord Bernar spoke with an accent which belied that the Common tongue was not his mother tongue, and he had a look about him which seemed positively Tyroshi with his hair dyed an unnatural green color which contrasted with his swarthy complexion.   


Ser Arstan for his part did not move, nor was this commented on as Olyvar chose that moment to interrupt saying, “We are traveling through, Bernar, there’s no need—”

 

“Traveling through? You? Running away is more like it.”

 

Olyvar said nothing in response, those his eyes remained fixed on Bernar.

 

“Amy gave birth a moon ago you know, the boy who came out of her was dark of hair and pale skinned.”

 

“I congratulate you on the birth of a son… _nephew_.” Olyvar spat the last word out as though it were a curse.

 

“The boy’s not got a drop of Darry blood in him besides what weak strain his mother had to start with, but he’s as Rosby as you are, which neither Amy nor I are.”

 

“If you’re going to slander me, have the decency to come right out and say it,” growled Olyvar.

 

Bernar urged his mount closer and drew his sword, “I’ll have your head for sleeping with my wife.”

 

There was something about Bernar which struck him as all too familiar. Mayhaps it was the arrogance, mayhaps it was the manner in which he yelled, but somehow Ned could not help but hear his cousin’s words echoing in his ears. It was then that Ned knew he had to interfere, but in order to have any benefit he’d have to take the men by surprise, and in order to do that he’d have to be able to run up from behind for a good twenty feet or so before he reached the rightmost flank of the seven. He’d be seen long before they reached him and then at least one of the seven would thrust spear him afore then.

 

“These are grave accusations Ser,” interjected Ser Arstan, stepping between Olyvar and Bernar.

 

Bernar swatted at Ser Arstan with the flat of his sword, but Ser Arstan ducked out of his reach rather quickly.

 

Bernar growled, “Stay out of this old man, or I’ll hang the lot of you as brigands here and now!”

 

At that, Gendry stepped forward, his own sword drawn. Bernar tried to swat him away as well, but steel met steel.

 

“And what’s to stop you from hanging the rest of us even if we just stepped aside and let you settle your score with Olyvar here?” Gendry challenged, which took Ned and Olyvar by surprise.

 

“I shall enjoy seeing you brigands at the end of a rope,” spat Bernar, turning his attention away from Olyvar and Ser Arstan.

 

Gendry snorted and steel met steel.

 

“The horses!” someone yelled and immediately one of Bernar’s associates began rushing for their horses—no doubt to spook them or steal them so that they could not rush away, and that was where Ned saw his opportunity to strike, which he did by jumping out and delivering a lucky slash in one of the legs of the poor beast underneath the rider. His only thoughts had been the defense of himself and their horses. The enemy’s horse whinnied, tripped, and collapsed, pinning the rider beneath it as it writhed in agony, its movements spooking the other horses who began to kick and buck. Ned reached for his dagger, but then remembered he’d given it to Olyvar. His sword would have to do—just like it had with Gerold. And with the man pinned, his spear fallen and forgotten a few yards away, Ned drew up and threw back the hood of his enemy only to reveal a scared if somewhat malnourished looking boy looking fearful at him, catching Ned completely off guard and freezing him ready to strike a killing blow. The boy appeared almost of an age with Ned and was likely one of Darry’s smallfolk, and looked from how thin his neck appeared as though he’d hardly seen a good meal. Seven hells, underneath the cloak—the only thing of quality the boy seemed to have upon closer inspection, the boy was bundled in layers of rags which made him look bulkier than he truly was. The boy’s eyes were closed in abject terror and the acrid scent of piss began to reach Ned’s nostrils. At that, Ned knew he could not kill this boy. He sheathed his sword, walked over to where the spear the boy had held lay discarded, picked it up, and turned his attention to the battle by the campfire. In the light seemed nothing more than a shadow play of darkened figures Ned could barely distinguish between except the sight of Lord Bernar upon his horse. Taking a brief moment to calm the horses, Ned then jumped upon the back of his own mount to even the odds of the fight.

 

The majority of Lord Bernar’s men had fled it seemed, most likely they were also scared smallfolk boys dressed to seem intimidating in the hazy half-dark light of the late wintry afternoon. One or two were dead upon the ground while Lord Bernar continued like the sellsword he had always been, slashing expertly from his horse, both Gendry and Ser Arstan doing their best to keep him occupied. Grazhar had long left the safety of the woods and was running to join Lyzam, who must have emerged from the tent at some point, who was in battle with what was probably the eldest and strongest boy who’d fallen from his horse and was engaged in battle. Olyvar had picked up a spear at some point and was trying to aid from a distance, but Lord Bernar seemed well capable of parrying three attackers from the ground. The man laughed as though engaged in sport rather than a true fight, delivering a powerful swing which knocked Ser Arstan to the ground just as Ned, came charging, the spear as ready as a lance for Lord Bernar. However instead of a hit, Ned found nothing but air as Lord Bernar had at the last second spurred his mount away from the challenge. By the time Ned had brought his mount back around, Lord Bernar was heard to be running off on his mount down the road he’d come from, surprising Ned at the cowardice of a man of the Golden Company.

 

Ned remained mounted, in case Lord Bernar should return, but he approached the campfire to survey the damage done. The three boys, not including the one which lay pinned in the snow by the horses, who had remained to fight were all dead. Lyzam and Grazhar were covered in their blood, more Lyzam than Grazhar it seemed to Ned. Ser Arstan still lay on the ground, the snow stained red about his head. Ned drew closer to see that the old knight was dead, a sever gash to his neck being the cause of his demise. Lyzam was on his knees, speaking in a tongue that Ned could not recognize while Grazhar looked on as though he were a statue—unflinching and unmovable. Gendry was himself bleeding from a headwound, though it looked that all that was wrong with him as that half his ear and a bit of skin had been sliced off.  Of them all, Olyvar was the only one besides Ned to not be covered in blood of some kind, and it was he who spoke now.

 

“We should leave before Bernar returns with actual men.”

 

“Is that all you can say over the body of the man who gave his life for you?” questioned Grazhar.

 

“Can you be so callous?” questioned Ned.

 

Olyvar looked about the group of them and then declared, “I am sorry Ser Arstan is dead for my sake, but it is done. The sword was swung and he’s drawn his final breaths, and what truly matters now is that he didn’t die protecting us from Bernar, only to have his death be turned into a mummer’s farce when he returns with more than poorly armed greenboys and smallfolk. He’ll return on horse with company men loyal to him. Fighters who proved their skill in the Free Cities who are as like to slaughter us all if we don’t start putting as much ground between Castle Darry and us.”

 

They were silent again for a moment, before Lyzam, finished with his prayers stood and grunted in a rough accent, “Ser deserves burial. Great Shepherd cannot take old ram into his flock without burial.”

 

“The ground’s too frozen for digging, and there’s likely not enough dry wood to be found to build a proper pyre. And Olyvar… has a point,” admitted Gendry with a tremendous bit of reluctance.

 

“I know Bernar, he used to boast of how he always remembers the faces of those who fight him in battle, so that he may slaughter them if they meet again. All of us are dead if we don’t get moving now,” added Olyvar who looked to Gendry with thanks for supporting him. Gendry though, did not meet Olyvar’s look.

 

“Go if you must, but we shall stay and build him a pyre” said Grazhar.

 

Ned looked at Grazhar, who had spoken passionately in that moment, seeing himself once again as he’d insisted on burying Lord Beric, even as Stoneheart screamed for them to go. That choice had split him from the rest of the Brotherhood without Banners, an action he hadn’t regretted much making, but this was different. Where would Grazhar and Lyzam go without a knight to serve? How would they even survive a winter in Westeros with Ser Arstan dead?

 

“We will help them,” Ned declared, giving Gendry a meaningful look. Gendry looked as though he wanted to argue, but instead snorted and said, “It will be impossible to find all the wood to burn him in this light, we must wait for the dawn.   


“Find what we can now, and we’ll finish the job at dawn,” agreed, Ned.

 

Olyvar began, “We don’t have time—!”

 

Ned had had enough, and he snapped at the man, “For one who is so concerned with finding his honor, you don’t seem very perceptive at seeing an opportunity for beginning to do so.”

 

Ned then turned and strode into the forest, looking for as much wood as could be found, not caring to hear whatever other protest Olyvar was going to make. Ned and Gendry had made up their minds, and that was that.

 

When the earliest light rose in the east, Ned woke the others so they could begin their search for more wood. The sun was fully risen by the time they had finished gathering what they could to make what Ned estimated could be a meager pyre, an unforeseen problem in their mission arose when Ser Arstan’s body was nowhere to be found. In their hurry to gather wood for his pyre, no one had taken stock of where they had drug the old man’s cold body, and now they had the wood, but not the body to burn. Quickly Ned asked Gendry who had had the shift before him keeping watch, during which Gendry admitted to having dozed off for a tiny bit, and Olyvar, who had had the shift before Gendry, added that the old knight’s corpse had been there when he’d kept watch.

 

“He was dead,” said Lyzam in a stunned manner as he looked at the disturbed pile of snow where Ser Arstan had been.

 

“He couldn’t have recovered and risen from death…” added Grazhar, equally as stunned, and looking to Ned for answer, seeming more the boy in that moment.

 

Ned felt a chill run down his spine in that moment and he looked to the North, where they must travel now, and a sinking feeling made him think that they would see Ser Arstan once again… or at least whatever was left of him.


End file.
